Founded in the fall of 1991, Laurel Moon is Brandeis' oldest, national literary publication. Each issue we publish features original work from undergraduate students.
Asphalt: Sang-hoon
The world is but a circle. For so much of it, the days slide past like segments on a wheel. Scenery rolls across the seasons, the same seasons that have always been. There could be lumps of gray snow or autumn leaves on the asphalt, or maybe a quivering heat wave, a freshly trampled flower squeezed neatly in the gaps – but it’s the same asphalt. Four variants, and you’ve seen them all before. You stare down, and your sneakers dip in and out of the frame. Cars blaze past, people stare at you as they laugh and talk, but they aren’t talking to you. They’re talking to someone you can’t see. You let the melody in your earphones determine how you feel, and not the other way around.
Seoul city is but a circle. Yet somehow there’s a peculiar quality, a strange tint that’s added when you know you’re leaving it. It’s that last shred of newness that the city can offer, and it’s either a parting gift or a final act of spite – just a matter of perspective, really. You feel like you’ve walked into a photograph with the saturation turned way up, as if you’re seeing it but not actually living in it. As if you never have.
That’s what it feels like, at least for me. I’m leaving. People know by now. He said goodbye. She said goodbye. He said goodbye. Everyone who wants to say goodbye, well, they’ve said it by now. I stare down, and my sneakers dip in and out of the frame. It’s the same asphalt, but it’s also not. I wonder where I’m going. The song is slow; it churns on and makes a tight knot of my stomach.
Dirty Pigeons: Candice
We’ve been on an airplane for hours, but our spirits are still high. The sky ripens, and we have only a few hours before Seoul plunges into darkness. We could go straight to the hotel and check in, but that’d be a waste. Personally, I wish we could have lingered around Incheon Airport for just a bit longer, but the others are quick to shoo me towards the cabs. I’m too excited to care.
See, there’s something magical about the first day: it sets up the mood for the rest of the week. You get a good rhythm going and it carries onto the next day, and then the next.
The wheels of our luggage drag behind us, catching every irregularity in the asphalt. We yelp and then break into laughter as a flock of pigeons flaps its wings and brashly takes flight. We don’t see pigeons where we’re from: squirrels maybe, small rabbits sometimes, but no pigeons. We point as we watch them scatter across the horizon like fireworks.
Neon Lights: Sang-hoon
The last few gasps of pink recede from the sky, leaving behind a deep indigo. There’s something about nights alone, something about leaving. You feel like a drink, then maybe two. That’s the danger of drinking alone. You get a bottle, and there’s no one to finish it but yourself, you know?
I rest my head on the table and stare through my bottle of soju. It adds a green filter to the city. A girl giggles and shakes her head while she talks to the man opposite her. The looking glass elongates her face. I take a shot and chew on a few of the free rice puffs they give as snacks. Bland, as expected. An employee asks if everything is alright. By the time I give the question some thought and begin uttering my answer, he’s hurrying to take orders from a different table. The chatter builds up and up. Words blur together and form a great big rain cloud– but it never pours.
I plug in my earphones and mumble along to the lyrics, just to drown out the noise. I feel like singing. Maybe I’ll stop by the coin karaoke rooms on my way back – yes, I think that’s what I’ll do. I don’t reckon they’ll have coin karaoke where I’m going, so I’ll make the most of my time in Seoul. I search my pockets and find two 500-won coins, enough for four songs, maybe five if I’m lucky. For now, I look at the neon lights blazing in the distance. Sharp colors and sharp corners cut into a page of black - their pale reflections tumble from the window and shimmer on the floor like water. I reach out and touch the floor to see if it is really wet. My face is nice and warm. I can feel it. I feel like I could write the words to my own song: you know, maybe about the city, maybe about him, maybe about just living. I just wouldn’t know if it’d be any good, but that’s alright, because I know I’m not going to write them anyway. That’s fine too. I yawn and rest my head again, returning to my looking glass.
Skyscrapers: Candice
We point at the skyscrapers. We’ve never seen buildings so tall. Some of the others giggle and march on, but I stand back for a moment and carefully trace the edge of one building with my finger. It’s a nice feeling when my finger reaches the night sky. We take pictures: sometimes of each other but never of ourselves – no, that’d be a waste. We feel young. We feel like we’re living in a moment that we’ll miss. It almost makes us wistful, but we resist the urge. It’d just be another waste.
We point at a star, wondering if it’s the North Star. We laugh when it blinks and realize it’s a satellite. We don’t mind. We see stars all the time back home, and we don’t think they’re any more special than satellites. A star, well that’s just been there the whole time. But a satellite– someone made that and put that up there. It’s almost more special, you know? I raise my hand and pinch my fingers around its white glow, and soon enough the others are shouting at me to catch up.
We eventually run out of skyscrapers to gaze at, so we stop at a chalkily lighted 7/11. We grab a few cans of beer and pick out some local snacks: ramen noodles in bright red cups adorned with cartoon flames, giant triangular rice balls wrapped in dried seaweed, fish sausages on sticks, and sticks of Coca Cola-flavored bubble gum. We should wake up early tomorrow, but again, it’s only the first night. We know we’re not going to sleep. The city is awash in lights; windows on the skyscrapers catch stray fragments and glisten like scales on a tropical fish. We feel like we’re at the bottom of a beautiful dark ocean.
Messages: Sang-hoon
All of a sudden, I squint and try to read the words on every neon sign I see. You ever look at how bright the city looks at night, and suddenly realize that every color is actually a word?
There are just some things that you never really give too much thought to until it’s too late.
노 신장개업 마 고 시 텔 1 인분 10,000 원!! 호 래 아 구 찜 사 24 시간 영업 ♥ 모텔 ♥ 프
방 타 로 , 사 주 지 필 라 테 스 V I P C L U B
I grin as I trace the contours of every letter and number. Some of them flicker; others glide from right to left, and the words run in eternal loops. Purple, red, green, blue. I feel like I’m collecting colors, like I’m collecting fragments of Seoul. The same employee from before walks past. This time, I ask him how he is. He seems confused, but I don’t want him to be embarrassed. I just ask him for more rice puffs and send him off. I put my palms up against my face. Warm.
I feel my phone buzz.
Are you drunk..?
It’s him. I don’t remember texting, but I must be wrong. I grin. He usually has a knack for not making people feel stupid about themselves. You tell a dumb joke, and he’ll tell one right back; you lose your footing while walking down the street, and he’ll pretend he was just looking away the whole time.
I wonder what I said to make him so confused, but I stop myself from checking the conversation. I don’t want to be the guy that replies immediately, so I’ll save it for tomorrow – as if that matters. I get up from my seat, and the world gently bobs up and down as if silent waves are washing over it.
Tickets: Candice
We take turns mashing our fingers on the electronic kiosk. We switched to the English option, but we still feel accomplished each time the machine spits out another subway pass, bright orange and shaped like a credit card. I roll my thumb over mine until I can see my fingerprints glossed over the smooth, papery surface. We glide down the escalators with our luggage by our side, some with fattened plastic bags hanging from their necks. We descend farther and farther down into a slick chamber of gray, but somehow, we feel fine.
Underground: Sang-hoon
The subway swings, and stripes of gray flash leftwards. Why are there windows on a subway? I can feel myself swallow my spit, but I don’t want to acknowledge it. I try to think about how I want to sing. Every once in a while, you just feel like singing, even if you don’t have a particular song in mind – but you stop yourself, because you know you’re not that drunk, you know? I almost wish that I was that drunk, just to justify it all, but I can’t convince myself. Besides, I already made plans with myself to go to the coin karaoke rooms. That much, I can still remember.
A group of foreigners that look around my age gets on, and they can’t stop talking. Part of me wants them to shut up, but part of me sort of wants to join in and put myself on display as if I’m some kind of exhibit, some interesting token of Seoul city – but I don’t, because I know I’m not that sober.
I’m really in the worst spot.
I lean my head against a pole when suddenly, I feel a sour warmth inching its way up, higher and higher. I swallow harder, trying to push it back down, but it’s no use. I know what’s coming and stay right where I am. I spill out, and people let out short screams as they backpedal from splashes of vomit. The foreigners across from me inadvertently burst out in laughter for a split second.
After a few more heaves, my throat feels so dry that it could tear. A sour taste lingers in my mouth. The foreigners look away and do their best to suppress smiles, as if they’ve never seen anything like it. One of them has a bright idea and walks over to hand me some wet napkins. I mumble my gratitude and go through the motions to wipe myself off (as if that’ll do any good), but all I hear is laughter. I don’t hear chatter, I don’t hear music, I don’t think I hear anything – but I swear I can still hear the laughter.
Underground: Convergence
He lumbers off at the next station, just like us. Some give him sideway glances, but we try to avoid eye contact. We wouldn’t want to feel stupid, or at least I wouldn’t. We shouldn’t have laughed. We’re waiting for the elevators to arrive when we hear a groan. When we turn around, we find him at the bottom of the stairway, half-sitting, half-lying. We stop in place and exchange looks.
/
Your English is very good, they tell me as they lean against the railing.
I’m flattered, but I don’t know what to say. My chest feels damp, and my face still feels warm. The world slowly stirs before me. I don’t remember how the conversation started, but I try not to make too much of it. I focus on the warm, sugary tang spreading inside my mouth, and I think I feel a little better. I hiccup and look down at the pack of Coca-Cola flavored bubble gum they gave me. I haven’t had one of these since middle school. It shivers in my hand. I stare at the wrapper, and a glass of Coke with eyes and teeth looks back up at me. He smiles like all is right in the world.
His hair is an artificial orange, his clothes a raging mess. He smacks his lips and sticks his tongue halfway out every few seconds, presumably trying to blow a bubble. What we’ve learned in the past few minutes is that he’s our age, and that he’s leaving soon – although he forgot to tell us where. Every other minute, he brings up the name of some friend, but every mention of him ends with a mutter about how “he wouldn’t know.”
At some point, he brings up the coin karaoke rooms.
We ask him what that is, but he doesn’t seem to understand our question.
This? He asks as he points at his shirt, covered in half-dried stains like continents on a map. This is from when I threw up earlier.
No, no, what’s a coin karaoke room?
No way, you know about coin karaoke? He cackles devilishly as he slaps his knee.
Suddenly, in a bout of genuine confusion, his expression turns serious. Wait, was I the one to bring that up?
No, you’re good. You’re good.
We offer to walk with him until he catches a cab, but he says that he has to go to the coin karaoke. Off-handedly, he asks us if we would like to come with him. We stare at each other awkwardly.
Coin Karaoke: Sang-hoon
For every playlist, there’s that one song you always end up skipping; maybe it’s just a tad too long or too slow – until for one reason or another, you sit through it and fall in love for the second time. You realize halfway through that the song isn’t too long or too slow, but that it’s actually just the right length and tempo. You let the song say what it has to say, and it makes you restless; it makes you nostalgic for people you’ve never loved and lives you’ve never lived.
The song in my earphones is “Seoul” by Thornapple. It was one of his songs, and I wish he’d ask me again if I liked it. Even in my current state, I could probably give a better answer this time around. For a split second, I wonder if I should do just that, but I tell myself I’m still not that drunk.
I try to ignore the sour stench of my clothes as I trod along alone, chewing on my second stick of gum. I don’t actually know where I am. I got a little embarrassed back in the subway, so I just got off at the nearest stop. As my sneakers dip in and out of the frame, grotesquely elongated shadows project themselves onto faintly tinged roads. I shoot a glance towards the road and notice a grayish red stain. When I look closer, I realize it’s a trampled pigeon, flat on the asphalt. Its feathers twitch as cars zoom past, giving the illusion of life. I stare at it for much longer than I need to.
Electric guitars howl into the space between my ears as I continue on, wandering from one fluorescent-drenched alley to another. I start to wonder if those foreigners got back safely – they seemed nice enough. The same song starts over from the beginning, and I let it play.
Just as the gum loses its flavor, I stumble upon a coin karaoke on the cusp of an alley. It’s standard fare: a blazing sign announcing the rates, and a flight of stairs leading down to a patchy basement.
B1 코인노래방!!!
2 곡 500 원
5 곡 1000 원
I dig through my pockets to make sure the two coins are still there. It’s enough to buy me five songs, and five sounds just about right.
A warm burst of air blows upon my face as I enter the doors. As soon as I yank my earphones out, I hear a cacophony of off pitch melodies blurring together. A tattooed man at the front desk gives me a disinterested glance, twitches his nose, and mutters that Room 7 is available. I hobble on, and through transparent doors, I can see the backs of people’s heads. Some sit, some sway, some dance, and some clap tambourines against their hips.
Like every other room, it’s the size of a closet, with slim cushioned benches on two sides, and a large television screen opposite. Directly below the screen is a charging port for two wireless mics, and on a small desk is a blocky remote, a yellow tambourine, and a ragged catalogue full of songs and their corresponding codes.
I drop my two coins into the slot, and the machine congratulates me for it.
For a while, I just sit. My mind draws a blank: What do I even want to sing? I look up the songs I’ve been listening to, but they’re not in the system. That’s the danger of singing alone – when you’re with other people, you can pretend to be polite and let them go first, buying time to figure out what you actually want to sing. The machine impatiently reminds me that I have one minute left to choose a song. I hurriedly flip through the laminated pages of the catalogue and enter the code for the first song I vaguely like.
Immediately, shades of magenta stretch out from a faux-disco ball and dizzily whirl around the room. An arousing music video from ten years ago plays on the screen, and lyrics appear at the bottom. Syllable-by-syllable, each word on the screen is slowly painted blue. I start singing along, first in sheepish mumbles and later in coherent melodies. Already, I feel a little better.
There’s a right rhythm and melody, and the answer is never too far out of reach. Once the song ends, the machine gives me a grade of 94. Not bad. That’s at least one thing you get out of a big city: You get a lot of things spelled out for you, whether you like it or not. Every color in the night sky correlates to a word, every five- to six-digit code correlates to a song, and every attempt at a song correlates to a number on a scale of 100. So much of the world is neatly codified – sometimes it’s convenient, and sometimes you realize you don’t know what it’s like to not have an answer. Seoul city is but a circle – a closed loop from which departure is hard to imagine. As I rush to pick the next song, I wonder when I’ll be back.
Messages: Candice
Once we check into the hotel, we split up to shower and unpack our luggage. Half an hour later, we gather altogether in one room. We sprawl on the beds, tear open bags of chips, and pop open beers. One of us excitedly unwraps and bites into a fish sausage, not knowing it has to be microwaved first. We flip through channels of the local television, making up our own conversations for the people on-screen. Eventually, we leave it on just for the noise.
We try not to drop crumbs on the sheets as we talk about the good times, talk about the memories we could never forget and then about the memories we almost let slip. We talk about the boys and girls that we miss and then about the boys and girls that we forgot existed. We start running out of topics, but we keep talking. If the conversation slows down, we can always pretend that the beers are stronger than they actually are and repeat ourselves.
Shit, I really wanted to try the Coke-flavored gum. It’s fine, we can get them again tomorrow.
What do you think that guy from the subway is up to? At the coin karaoke rooms, obviously.
No way, you know about coin karaoke?
The others break out in laughter. I let myself smile faintly. We stay crisscrossed on the mattresses, digging for a new thread of conversation before the silence gets too thick. After a while, I get up and squeeze myself into a chair by the window. Nobody needs to ask why, because I can always pretend that the beers are stronger than they actually are. I rest my ankles on an armrest and stare out at the bottom of the ocean. It’s odd to think we were down there just a while ago. I try tracing the skyscrapers with my finger once more, but the buildings are too small this time.
I look up what a coin karaoke is. I squint at the pictures, trying to picture the person from earlier in one of the rooms. I wonder what his singing voice is like. I wonder about where he’s leaving to and what his friend is like. I wonder if he even remembers meeting us.
But I guess I’ll never know, and that shouldn’t bother me too much.
From behind, one of the others calls my name. For a moment, I consider letting my eyelids drop and feigning sleepiness, but on second thought, that’d be a waste. It’s still only our first night here after all. I turn around, then get up to make my way back.